


the wonder that keeps the stars apart

by Nilmiel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale assumes the worst, Fluff and Angst, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilmiel/pseuds/Nilmiel
Summary: Aziraphale’s mouth quirks deeper into a frown. “Then why are you on the floor, my dear?”“Napping,” Crowley responds easily, grateful that his large round glasses still covered his eyes. His chest and arm are flaring up in pain, the agony like thousands of fiery needles shooting through his nerves.1967. 14 hours, 37 minutes, and 38 seconds since Aziraphale had given Crowley a thermos full of holy water. Not that anyone is counting.





	1. 1967

**Author's Note:**

> title from e.e. cummings poem [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

Crowley isn’t sure what brings him to the church. His feet, probably, but certainly not on purpose.

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

Ah, yes that. There’s a thermos full of holy water sitting on the table in his unbearably empty flat, and a knot in his chest that had simply demanded he walk as far away as his feet could carry him. Crowley scoffs as he looks at the group of people gathered on the green in front of the old building. Is this Her idea of irony perhaps?  _ You can run,  _ he imagines her saying,  _ but no matter where you run, you’re running to me.  _ He can vaguely imagine Her smiling up there are he wallows around in his own misery, laughing at his misfortune.

The doors of the church open, and a bride and groom stride out into the sun, the priest walking with folded hands behind them. Crowley tries to dampen the now familiar jealously that flames in his chest. The bride in all white, clasping he hand of the darkly dressed man beside her. He remembers the brush of the angel’s fingers as he handed over the thermos and he received it, like a sinner taking communion, two hands grasping the edge of something too bright to look at. He bites back a hiss as he watches the newlyweds float blissfully down the stairs to the cheers of their gathered loved ones.

He notices too late the priest has lifted an aspergillum into the air and shakes it over the crowd, exclaiming blessings of the Lord our God over the congregation.

The holy water catches him in the shoulder.

\---

By the time he’s miracled himself home, the drops have eaten through his clothing, through the skin, and down to the bone. Crowley collapses inside the foyer, clutching his arm to his chest as the holiness bites into him. It feels like he’s being obliterated piece by piece, as each atom of the divine comes into contact with the profane of him, and they extinguish each other in a fit of fire.

“Fuck!” He hisses through his teeth as the agony spreads from his shoulder down his arm. He’s keenly aware of every beat of his heart as it pumps blood past the contaminated wounds, each pulse pushing the searing pain from the couple of centimeters that took the direct hit. So he stops it beating.

He can’t bring himself to stop breathing, though. Breathing was a thing he rather liked. The woosh of air in and out of his lungs, sliding past his teeth and into the world and then taking air from the world again over his tongue and down his throat, tasting what’s around him; he’s a serpent at heart, after all. Last night, in the Bentley, the air had tasted, for just a moment, like  _ everything. Like a crisp morning, like the first sip of tea from a warm mug, the petrichor after a summer rain, the burn of a vintage whiskey _ —Crowley chokes as he catches himself. No. That’s not the line of though he needs right now. Instead he closes his eyes and imagines standing over a seaside cliff in the night, the endless sky above, the churning sea blow and just breathes. A rush in, a rush out, a calming tempo.

It soothes his mind but does nothing for the pain that’s creeping in spider webs from his shoulder to his chest, to his right arm. He lays his head back on the stone floor, his back arching in spasms of pain as he claws his arm closer to him. He’s pretty sure this isn’t enough to kill him. At least, he hopes. The initial onslaught of annihilation seems to have slowed, no more holy pain is digging further into him. But where his flesh has all but evaporated, his nerves sing in anguish. He can’t miracle the wounds away. There would be no healing this, not without a trip downstairs, and, not to be dramatic, but Crowley would rather go back to the fourteen century than try to head down there now.

So he just lays on the floor, cradling his misshapen arm and shoulder, and considers seeing if he could sleep it off.

Not a minute passes before there’s the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door.

_ Fuck _ .

“Crowley?” Of course. Of-fucking-course the angel would show up.

“Ngk,” Crowley manages, and tilts his head in the general direction of the door. “Not a good time, angel,” he rasps. “Very busy. Demony stuff. You wouldn’t like it.” His shoulder screams at the angle he’s holding his head, and he collapses back with a curse.

“Crowley, what on earth has happened? I know you were hurt. I’ve been- well, I’ve been paying closer attention—”

“No, really angel, go away. You think I want you here, mucking up my space with your cheery good deeds? Go on.” He winces at the words. 

There’s a brief silence at the door, and for a moment, Crowley thinks maybe Aziraphale has left. But then his voice comes again, slower, soft and hesitant. “… are you angry with me?”

Crowley bites back a hiss of pain. “No. Yes. For Go— ssshit. For fuck’s sssake angel, you just told me I’m too fast, and you’re here at my flat barely fifteen hours later? Can you make up your mind?” He squeezes his eyes shut and forces the next words out past his teeth. “Maybe you were right. You should go.”

And bless him, he can see the look on the Aziraphale’s face in his mind. His brow furrowed, his bright smiling lips drawn into a thin line. His soft eyes darkening in shock, and then hurt.  _ I’m sorry _ , Crowley thinks as loudly as he can.  _ You can’t see me like this. You can’t. It would kill you. And that would kill me. _

Aziraphale huffs a breath outside the door. “I’m coming in,” he says in that blessed persistent voice, and  _ oh,  _ Crowley thinks with an ache that has nothing to do with his holy water scarred chest.  _ Oh. That’s right. He’s a stubborn bastard.  _ The lock on the door clicks softly. Crowley tries very quickly and nonchalantly to fold his jacket over his bad side as best he can before the angel’s soft footsteps pad over to him and he’s staring up at Aziraphale’s pained face. 

“You weren’t exactly subtle, you know.” He says quietly. “Something happened. Even I could tell something happened. I’ve never been as good as you are at picking up when there’s trouble, but…” He trails off. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Crowley blinks at him. “M’fine,” he says, craning his neck.

Aziraphale’s mouth quirks deeper into a frown. “Then why are you on the floor, my dear?”

“Napping,” He responds easily, grateful that his large round glasses still covered his eyes. His chest and arm are flaring up in pain, the agony like thousands of fiery needles shooting through his nerves.

Despite the glasses, Aziraphale must have seen him wince, because his eyes narrow suspiciously. He toes one single oxford clad foot forward, pressing directly into the demon’s shoulder above his collar bone. The effect is instantaneous. Crowley stifles a curse, but his body flails away from the contact and his arm wrenches free of his grip. The jacket falls aside, and he’s laid bare before the angel, chest heaving, and tears stinging his eyes as he can’t help but let out a violent hiss.

Aziraphale’s eyes hover over the burns across his chest, and then flicker over to the table where the thermos sits carelessly in the open, and Crowley’s mind clatters to a halt.  _ No, no, no wait.  _ He heaves in a shuddering breath and manages to rasp out “Angel, no—it’s not what you think, I—" But a look of horror has started to settle into the angel’s eyes, and as they widen, the rest of his face contorts through disbelief and shock and settle into despair. Crowley’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest before he can stop it again, and oh, this pain makes the holy water feel like absolutely nothing. He would rather bathe in the stuff than see the grief on Aziraphale’s face or hear the broken wail he makes as he drops to his knees beside him.

“Crowley,” He starts in a wavering voice. “Crowley, my dear,  _ what have you done to yourself? _ ” There’s aching and pain in his words and just the uncertainty in his voice push the tears Crowley had stifled back to his eyes.

“It was an accident,” He coughs. “I didn’t—angel, I would never—”

“I trusted you,” Aziraphale interrupts. “I trusted—" His hands are tangling in his lap where he sits and his cheeks are wet with tears. He takes several gasping breaths. “—my fault,” he hiccups, before breaking into sobs again.

“ _ No. _ ” Crowley says firmly, reaching, grasping for Aziraphale with his good hand. His fingertips brush the angel, but Aziraphale recoils as if burnt. “Aziraphale,” he says softly, withdrawing his arm and clutching his shoulder, covering the burns. But what can he say? The angel is crying- crying! —because of him. Aziraphale is slumped on the floor of his flat and blaming himself because he thinks Crowley took the gift he’d given him and tried to off himself. What does he say instead?  _ Oops, sorry, I was a bit careless and wandered over to a church of all places while I was trying to piece my heart back together from last night. So sorry. Won’t happen again. Now please stop crying, and also don’t take back the holy water, because I may need it in the future.  _ And then the angel had come here and the first thing he’d done was give him the idea that he was miserable because of what Aziraphale had said. Crowley blesses himself under his breath. He did hurt. It had hurt—but that hurt was nothing compare to the thought of losing—of not even existing in the same world—

Between the pain from the holy water and the torture at seeing Aziraphale come so completely unraveled and distraught, Crowley is amazed he hasn’t just dropped dead on the spot.

Aziraphale is trembling, heaving breaths between sobs, covering his face with his hands and repeating again, and again,  _ my fault. _ Each syllable strikes Crowley like a dagger in the ribs. He knew—he had always known that he would never turn the holy water on himself. It never even occurred to him that the angel may think that’s what he wanted for when he first asked. Of course this world was hard. Of course this world chewed you up and spat you out and just when you thought you couldn’t get any lower, humanity came up with new and inventive ways to destroy itself. He thinks back with a cringe to Spain, when he’d been drunk and unresponsive in a local cantina for a week before Aziraphale had found him. But even then— _ even then— _ he’d never even considered actually ending it, or even discorporating for temporary relief. For Go—fuck’s sake, even at its worst, he could always find something in this world to cling to. For everything horrific that came from the hearts of humanity, there was something delightful to counter. Fast cars, spiced wine, brilliant telescopes and satellites, fashionable sunglasses—

From the moment he’d stood on the wall of Eden, watched the very beginnings of humanity walk hand-in-hand into the world; the moment he’d heard an angel confess to giving away his literal God-given flaming sword; from the moment the first drops of rain had fallen from the sky and padded softly against his hair, his face, his skin, and he’d taken shelter beneath Aziraphale’s wing; from that moment, there was something for Crowley to keep existing for.

Aziraphale stands suddenly in a fit of motion. “I should have known,” he murmurs to himself, cheeks still stained with tears. His voice is rough with swallowed emotion. “I thought—” he hiccups and makes a pathetic sound between a sigh and a whimper, “I thought this would protect you.”

“Angel—”

“No, no I thought—I thought it was safer this way but—” He swallows and rounds on Crowley, with fury building beneath the tears. “Did I really upset you so?” he demands, voice breaking.

_ Oh. Fuck. _

Aziraphale storms over to the table and swipes the thermos from it. “All I asked for,” and here his voice breaks and he’s crying again. “All I asked for was time, my dear, and….” He hastily stuffs the thermos into one of the pockets of his ridiculously old-fashioned jacket. His eyes focus on Crowley again, and they look him over with such grief Crowley’s mouth goes dry. He can’t move under that gaze.

“Please, Aziraphale, please—listen to me,” he gasps in a hoarse whisper.

He doesn’t answer Crowley, but he does take soft tentative steps back to his side and sinks to the floor once more, wrapping his arms around himself and settling into silent tears.

Crowley closes his eyes and heaves a deep breath in through his nose. “Angel,” he begins again shakily. “Love, please,” and here he reaches again, trembling fingers coming to rest on Aziraphale’s knee. Aziraphale makes no indication that he’s even registered the touch. “You promised me a picnic. D’you really think I wouldn’t stick around for that?”

His angel takes in a quick breath and chokes back a sob.

“You really think I would betray you like that?”

“Well, obviously,” He manages weakly. “You’re a demon, that’s what you do.”

And  _ that _ cuts into him, into the heart of him, in a way not even holy water or a divine blade could. Every shred of torment from the holy water redoubles, knifes at him, and it’s all he can do to stifle a strangled cry. The tears stinging his eyes spill over now, unchecked. And why? He is a demon. Any demon worth his salt would jump at the chance to hurt an angel the way he’s managed to.

“Not you,” Crowley murmurs through tears, closing his eyes against the pain flaring in his chest. “Never you.”

It’s so soft, he’s half sure he’s imagining it, but he feels the press of Aziraphale’s fingers against his own. Next comes the angels voice, softer even still.

“That was unfair of me,” he says. Crowley turns his eyes to him. “I know you wouldn’t,” He continues. “Not… not like this.” He shuffles on his knees just a bit closer, until he’s close enough Crowley no longer needs to twist his head to the side to see him. Aziraphale heaves a deep breath, and lifts his hand from where it had brushed Crowley’s fingers and reaches tentatively towards Crowley’s face. “…May I?” He asks, fingers hovering just above the demon’s cheek.

“S’alright,” Crowley breathes, and Aziraphale slides the glasses from his face. Crowley squints instinctively as his face is laid bare. The angel is  _ always  _ so bright, and now in the dim light of his flat he’s burning like a sun.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale mutters, and moves to wipe his own eyes with the back of his hand. “They’ve gotten quite dirty, you know, my dear. This won’t do.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief and begins cleaning the lenses meticulously. “I…” He begins, focusing intently on his task. “I may have fallen apart a bit there,” he says unevenly, and the effort he is making to keep his voice steady weighs on Crowley’s chest like a brick. It’s already hard enough for him to breathe through his injury, and now his breaths come even shorter.

Aziraphale folds the glasses neatly and sets them aside. His forehead is still creased in a frown as he turns his attention to Crowley. Carefully, and agonizingly tenderly he presses a palm to Crowley’s cheek and wipes away tears with his thumb. Crowley’s breath hitches and he lets his eyes fall closed against the touch. Aziraphale’s hand is so warm, nearly scorching, but he presses his face into the touch anyway. And for a moment it’s the only thing he can feel. He welcomes the moment of relief. This is the burn of a swallow of whiskey, of warmth of the morning sun after a cold night, the heat rolling off of a fire in winter.

“Are you in pain?” Aziraphale inquires gently.

“S’not bad,” Crowley lies, opening his eyes and gazing steadily at his angel’s face. His brows are knitted together in weary concern. Crowley brings his good hand up to cup Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek. “I’ll be okay, I think.”

“My dear boy, for a demon you’re a terrible liar.”

Crowley doesn’t respond.

“Now, then,” Aziraphale continues softly. “Perhaps—” He takes a shuddering breath. “Perhaps I should let you tell me what happened.”

“Accident, angel.” Crowley supplies quickly. “I mean it. Wrong place, wrong time, a priest doing a blessing—it just happened. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” The angel smiles sadly. “You could have been—you might have been—”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “It won’t happen again, angel, I promise, I just wasn’t paying attention.”

After a moment of looking over him with appraising eyes, Aziraphale seems to accept what he’s saying. His brows relax just slightly, and he retracts his hand. It takes every ounce of self-control Crowley has to keep himself from clinging to his fingers and chasing the warmth of the retreating palm. But Aziraphale doesn’t move far. Instead, he trails delicate fingers over Crowley’s collar bone, letting his hand come to rest softly against the center of his wounds.

The pain should increase, it should redouble at the proximity of something so divine, so  _ holy _ , but it doesn’t. He can’t turn his eyes away from the angel’s face and the concerned and concentrated look that’s crept there. Somehow, the pain is fading even as Aziraphale blinks once, twice. There’s a wrenching pull in his chest and shoulder, like a fishing line has hooked into his ribs and is lifting him from the floor. He turns to look as his back arches off the floor, following Aziraphales hand as it lifts from him. There’s a feeling like something sliding, coming loose, and the pull releases, and Crowley falls back to the floor. And the  _ relief _ the overwhelming  _ refuge  _ from the pain crashes into him like an ocean wave. And his heart is beating again, strong, steady and pulsing. He heaves mouthfuls of air into his lungs and both his hands come to rest over the wound on his chest and shoulder. Its damp, but when he looks it’s only blood, as if it were a regular cut or burn.

Aziraphale is standing swiftly, cupping something in the palm of his hand, and moving away from him in a hurried motion.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley calls, tipping upwards to sit.

“One moment, my dear,” Comes the call from across the flat. There’s the sound of running water, and then the angel is striding back into the room, drying his hands on a white towel that certainly isn’t one of Crowley’s. Aziraphale stops in front of him, and then kneels and settles back on his heels to look at him face to face. There’s a thin smile on his lips.

“What did you do?” Crowley asks, breathless, pressing against his chest to staunch the meager bleeding.

“Well, I took it back.”

“It?”

“The holy water. It was only a frightfully small amount, and not even a particularly potent bit at that.”

“Oh,” he breathes, and it seems woefully insufficient. His eyes meet the angel’s bright blue gaze and he holds it there.  _ Thank you,  _ he thinks loudly.  _ Thank you. I love you. I love you I love you I would never leave you.  _ Aziraphale’s mouth parts as a tiny noise escapes him and he flushes, as if he could hear Crowley’s thoughts.

Clapping his hands on his knees, Aziraphale smiles too quickly and breaks eye contact, and moves to stand up. “You shouldn’t have a problem taking care of the rest of that.” He says hastily. “Just, um. Just a normal human accident. Couldn’t be helped.” He laughs nervously, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll leave you to it then?”

“Course. Of course.” Crowley answers, masking his sudden disappointment. “Just, um. Angel?”

Aziraphale pauses, his hand on the doorknob. He looks at Crowley then, and if you could drown in a look Crowley would be gasping for air. “Yes, my dear?”

“Um, would it be too much to ask for you to, um.” He takes the opportunity to snag his glasses from where they sit on the floor, and slips them on. “Leave the thermos?” He finishes.

“Ah,” he answers, holding his hands at his side and fists and rocking once up onto his toes. “I suppose I couldn’t persuade you it was for the best if I didn’t?”

Crowley smiles weakly. “I won’t stop you if you walk out of here,” He says. “But I swear, on everything I am, you will never have to go through this again.”

The angel closes his eyes and sighs in consideration. But he does open his jacket, and takes the thermos from his pocket and sets it carefully, reverently, on the table beside the door. “Mind yourself, my dear,” he says, and it sounds almost like—

But then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.


	2. 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7 hours, 43 minutes, and 19 seconds after the End of the World, Aziraphale steps into Crowley’s flat for the first time in more than fifty years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t plan on adding more, but then this popped into my head and would leave me in peace. Besides. I needed more comfort than where I left it.

“It’s alright, angel.”

Aziraphale startles and looks up from where his gaze had caught on the threshold. 

“Oh. Um. Right,” he says, glancing quickly between the floor and where Crowley stood a few feet ahead of him. “I’ll just,” he falters. He moves to lift one foot and toe it across the line into the cavernous flat ahead of him. 

He can’t see Crowley’s eyes past the dark glasses in the dark room, but he feels his gaze on him. The demon lets out a soft sigh as Aziraphale hesitates, and his eyebrows knit together in weary fondness. He holds out his hand to the angel, all lanky arms and long fingers and soft cool skin. Aziraphale waits only a moment before reaching out to take it and lets himself be led into the flat. 

He drops Crowley’s hand the instant he’s inside. Crowley twitches his fingers as Aziraphale draws back into his shell and glances around the flat’s entryway. “Apologies,” Aziraphale murmurs, wringing his hands as Crowley steps around him and shuts the door quietly. “I know it’s been over fifty years since I was here but—”

—_ and Crowley is lying on the floor in the foyer, his shoulders hunched and his arm cradled against his chest, looking up at him upside-down from where he rests. There’s a smell like magnesium that’s been ignited and the demon’s breaths are coming in short gasps. “M’fine,” he mumbles unconvincingly, and he’s hissing and writhing in pain and there are tears on his cheeks and he’s reaching for Aziraphale who only has eyes for the tartan thermos on the table— _

Aziraphale catches the gasp in the back of his throat, but not before the memory of the dread, the guilt, the abject terror settles into his stomach. Crowley is hovering inches away, a hand raised tentatively to reach for him but hovering frozen in the space between them. 

Crowley’s throat works as he struggles to form words. “It’s…. it’s alright, angel. Aziraphale.” He swallows, hand still hovering in the air. “I’m here. I’m right here. I promised you, didn’t I? It’s alright.”

Aziraphale forces the images back from his mind, instead looking at the pristinely clean surfaces. The sharp angles of the tables and sparse furniture. The peak of lush, verdant leaves from around the corner. Everything in its place. 

“Yes. Yes. Right,” he manages. Closing his eyes and letting a breath out in a sigh, Aziraphale takes another step forward. And then another. Crowley shuffles quickly to the side to make room for him. He breathes through his nose, taking in the cool scent of charcoal. _ Crowley. _ The place smells like him. _ The tang of frozen air in winter. _ His breaths come easier and he can feel the air discharge as Crowley relaxes beside him. _ Smooth steel and the spice of whiskey. Something _ — _ something burning, acrid, cloying, curdling _—

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and he can’t stop the strangled cry that escapes his throat. “Crowley,” he cries, flailing his arm for the demon beside him. 

_ —and suddenly everything is laid out clearly before him. Crowley had taken it. He’d taken the holy water and tried to do the unthinkable. But why, why, why would he do this? Aziraphale had trusted him, he’d trusted the demon’s earnest heart and his careful hands as he’d taken the thermos. It wasn’t what he wanted it for, he said. Trust him, Aziraphale had told himself. He’s saved you so many times, maybe now is when you save him. Trust him. But then _ — _ then he had taken the thermos and tried to _ — _ to hurt himself. Why? _

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley _. 

_ No. No. No no no no no no no. He wouldn’t, would he? Not because of that. Not because _ — _ had he felt abandoned? As Aziraphale had left the car, did Crowley feel as though he’d been cast out, cast away from him? _

_ Oh. _

_ So it was his fault. _

_ He’d given Crowley the means to end his existence. And then a reason to. _

“What? What is it?” Crowley voice yanks him back to the present, and he catches Aziraphale’s hand in both of his own, all startled nerves and and terrible anxiousness. “Angel, what’s wrong?”

“That smell—” He replies haltingly. “What— what is that smell?”

“What smell, angel?” Crowley’s voice is urgent, desperate. He’s leaning forward, cradling Aziraphale’s hand against his chest.

“The smell. It’s like— it’s like when—”

—_ his hand, hovering over Crowley’s chest, feeling the extent of the damage the holy water has done to him, the pain, the suffering, the annihilation of flesh and self. He smells like blood, like burning iron. Crowley’s eyes on him, devoted, trusting, adoring, as he gathers the molecules of holy water from the wounds. He feels the particles latch into Crowley, holding with vicious tenacity, unwilling to relinquish their grasp. He concentrates, blinks once, twice. He focuses all his attention on each of the blessed atoms, protons and neutrons and electrons spinning in empty space, and calls them home. As he lifts his hand, Crowley’s back arches off the ground to follow him, the water hesitant, but then obedient and letting go all at once. The sound of air rushing into Crowley’s lungs, the whimper that escapes him as he sinks back to the floor, the thudding of his heart, loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. He stands, cupping the water in his hands and rushes away from Crowley’s side, partially to safely dispose of the water, and partially to hide the tears that came back into his eyes. But Crowley is safe, he’s alive, he’s alive _—

Crowley’s eyebrows quirk together and his head tilts to the side. He’s stroking the pad of his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. A soft, cool touch, moving side to side in a gentle undulating rhythm. Aziraphale slowly matches his breath to the movement. A breath in, a breath out, willing himself to focus on Crowley, his heartbeat, his touch, his scent, and lets it begin to block out whatever horrifying odor has reached him from somewhere beyond in the flat.

Crowley pauses and sniffs once. “Ah. Yes. That’ll be Ligur.”

It takes Aziraphale a moment to comprehend the words he has just said. “Ligur? The duke of Hell?” 

“Ehm. Yeah. That’s the one.”

“In your flat?”

A look of pride spreads on Crowley’s face, and he’s just so brilliantly confident and sure that Aziraphale’s racing heart settles the rest of the way into his chest. As he calms and his mind and his heart return to the present, Aziraphale registers how different the smell is from fifty years ago. The bright, steaming hot smell of the holy water is the same, yes, but the rest, the cloying and the rot, that’s different. That’s not Crowley. That has never been Crowley. Crowley has only ever smelled like home.

The demon in question is barely suppressing a grin and Aziraphale can imagine light in his golden eyes dancing behind the sunglasses. “Oh, my dear,” he asks, letting himself sound mildly scandalized. “Whatever did you do?”

The smile breaks out on Crowley’s face at the same moment he realizes he’s still holding Aziraphale’s hand. The bright look on his face falters only a moment as he releases his hold, clears his throat, and pushes his glasses up on his nose where they had begun to slip. Aziraphale slowly withdraws his hand and tries to hide his disappointment at the loss of contact. But Crowley’s smile is back, grinning from ear to ear, and he cannot help but return the look with a small twitch of his own lip.

“So, you remember how I turned up at the bookshop before—” Crowley stutters. “Well. Well. Ahem.” He stuffs his fingers into the too-small pockets on his ridiculous jeans. “Well. Hastur and Ligur both showed up here.”

“For you?” Aziraphale inquires. “They came to stop you?”

“By any means possible.”

“Oh, oh Crowley—”

“It’s all okay, angel. It’s all fine. Thanks to you.”

The holy water. “_ You didn’t.” _

Crowley grins like a snake, showing his teeth and tongue.

“_ You did?” _

“Mmmmyep. Well. No. Not directly. There was a plant mister, but that was a bluff. No. I put a bucket over the door, and when Ligur tried to walk in…” He makes a squishing noise that sounds like it may have been trying to mimic an explosion or a particularly bad plumbing problem.

“Both of them?”

“Well, no. Only Ligur. Hastur had the fortune of standing just far enough behind. Didn’t have the decency to get splashed.”

Aziraphale is slightly aware that his jaw has dropped open.

“So I trapped him in voicemail. Seemed like the only thing to do at the time. Also because of you, I’ll have you know. That ridiculously antiquated thing you made me keep around turned out to be useful after all.”

“So you— you vaporized one duke of Hell and trapped another in your voicemail answering machine?” Aziraphale tuts. “That seems like an awful risk. If he’d caught you, he would have—“ the words don’t come. “He would have—“

“Yeah, but he didn’t, angel. And I knew, if they were coming for me, someone was coming for you and I couldn’t—“ His voice falters a moment, but he takes a breath and catches himself. “And the thing about Hastur. He has absolutely no vision. No creativity. He’s been doing things exactly the same for millennia. It was too easy, really. I just told him I was calling the Dark Council,” he laughs. “I jumped in, he followed, I jumped out, and BAM. _ Hastur la vista _.”

Crowley’s face is lit in joy and pride at his own cleverness, and the soft light of the streetlamps outside the window soften the angles of his nose, his cheekbones. The sunglasses that rest on the bridge of his nose, though they hide golden eyes, bring attention to the furrows of his eyebrows, the path back to his ears, the line of his jaw. His shoulders tremble in silent laughter, and his head tilted back exposes the long grace of his throat. And bathed in carefree joy and diffuse halos of light, it occurs to Aziraphale just how beautiful Crowley is.

And so Aziraphale closes the few steps between them and kisses him.

The quiet laughter dies on Crowley’s lips and a soft sound escapes him as Aziraphale wraps his fingers around the back of his neck to hold him close. It is a careful thing, a simple brush of lips with the intent and longing of six thousand years. Aziraphale breathes in the smell of him, overwhelming and all encompassing, drowning out and lingering acrid fear and cleansing his palate. Here breathing is easy, and his heart beats calmly, and for a moment he forgets himself entirely. That is, he forgets until Crowley takes a hissing breath between his teeth and chokes on what sounds like a sob. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter open, and he sees the tears sliding down Crowley’s cheek and the entire preceding day comes crashing into him like a wall of bricks and knocks the serenity from him.

He all but flings himself backwards. “Oh,” he begins, breathless. “Oh, oh my dear, I’m so sorry, please, forgive me. I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have presumed I—” He fumbles with the words in his mouth, his tongue feeling suddenly thick and dumb. “Forgive me,” he manages. 

Crowley stands absolutely still for a moment, his bright eyes squeezed shut behind his glasses and _ oh, _ Aziraphale thinks, heart trembling, _ oh, I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined absolutely everything. _And as if a string has been cut, Crowley lets out a breath and his shoulders slump forward. He draws the air back in a hiss and Aziraphale can see him shaking. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale volunteers again. “I’m so sorry, I—”

But Crowley is laughing. He’s laughing, even as he raises a hand to wipe the tears from his face and brush his thumb beneath his eyes. He takes his glasses in one hand, pulls them off and offers them up to the air and they vanish. “You idiot,” He says, leveling his gaze at Aziraphale. “You stupid, stupid angel,” he sighs with infinite, patient fondness. And before Aziraphale can comprehend what’s happening, Crowley is reaching for him, taking his face in both of his hands and kissing him back.

He doesn’t even have the breath to protest, nor the mind to do very much of anything at the moment aside from let his eyes fall shut as he melts into Crowley’s hold. _ Oh. _ Crowley’s lips move with heart aching tenderness against his own, the pads of his thumbs brush soothing lines over his cheeks. He is cool to the touch where they meet, a startling contrast to the heat beneath his own skin and in his own lungs. 

Crowley breaks the kiss after a moment, but he doesn’t move far, and instead rests his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Oh,” Aziraphale manages in a sigh.

“Yeah, ‘_ oh _’.” Crowley whispers against his mouth.

“Do you mind if I try that again?” Aziraphale asks, bringing his gaze up to the slitted pupils bare inches from his own eyes.

“I’ll be very cross if you don’t,” Crowley answers.

“Right. Well then,” and because he is just a bit of a bastard, Aziraphale reaches up to grab the completely ridiculous grey string-cravat-thingy Crowley has looped around his neck, and tugs him back to his own mouth. 

Crowley makes a surprised noise that turns into a satisfied moan. Encouraged, Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s hip with his free hand, and presses him closer. The demon hisses at the contact, and bites at Aziraphale, quickly soothing the nip over with a soft flick of his tongue. And this is something harder, deeper. This is a kiss flooded with fifty years of relief and six thousand years of unsaid yearning. The raging waters hammer at the dam Aziraphale had built in his chest, and they surge over, into him, through him. Every instance of doubt, of worry, of anxiety is washed from him as he parts his lips to invite Crowley in. _ Oh, _ he thinks again as Crowley actually _ whines _ and strengthens his grip to tilt his head back, dipping his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth and running over his teeth. 

Aziraphale lets the flood waters carry him away from every anxiety that has plagued him. The insecurity the moment he handed his God-given sword over to a mortal woman, the fledgling terror when he lied to the Almighty about what had happened to it; the nerves that sang when he didn’t understand, didn’t see how the deaths of children, the death of a young carpenter, could ever possibly be part of the great plan; the apprehension at the thought of lying to Heaven and entering the arrangement; the untold dread when Crowley had asked him for the holy water; the anguish of finding him suffering on the floor of his own flat; the uneasiness of sitting beside Gabriel in a sushi shop; the despair when Crowley had fallen to his knees in terror at the approach of the Enemy— _ None _ of that, not a single spark of trepidation could stand against the tides of _ relief _ and _ comfort _ of this moment. Because Crowley is _ kissing him, holding him, _here, after the end of the world. 

He sighs his content into Crowley’s mouth, and pulls away just enough to catch his breath. Crowley leans forward to chase his lips, but stops just short, pausing, waiting, letting Aziraphale decide. His bright serpent-eyes meet Aziraphales own, and his breath brushes softly against his skin.

“My dear,” he breathes, moving to run his fingers through dark red hair. “Oh, my dear. Never let me doubt you again.”

Crowley chuckles, and stands straight, taking Aziraphale’s hand from his chest and pressing a kiss to the heel of his palm. “_ Nothing, _ not Heaven or Hell, is going to keep me from you, angel.”

A sudden flicker of worry blooms in Aziraphale’s heart, but it sputters and dies quickly like a spark on damp firewood. “They’ll come for us,” he says without fear.

“Let them,” Crowley snarls, and Aziraphale is overwhelmed with such affection it takes all his will to keep himself from pulling him back into another embrace.

“No, my dearest,” he replies fondly. “Even with everything we are, we could not stand against all of them.”

Agony begins to creep onto Crowley’s face, his eyes widen and his brows fold together and his mouth draws into a grim line. “I won’t let them—” He starts, but Aziraphale hushes him.

“Shush. None of that. We aren’t giving up. You gave me a rather good idea at the bus stop.” He smiles brightly. “_ We must choose our faces wisely. _ Come. Why don’t I help you clean up that stinking mess in the other room, and I’ll tell you everything.”

———  


_here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
_

_(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
_

_and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows  
_

_higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
_

_and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart  
_

_i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)_

_-e.e. cummings_

_\----_

[a brief comic of this by me, on tumblr](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/187545102469/and-the-thing-about-hastur-he-has-absolutely-no)

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to Megan (just_quintessentially me (goodomensblog) )for inspiring, reading, and editing. Now all of you go read her things.


End file.
